Those you love
by MelMey
Summary: Sherlock had to jump and leave those he loves behind. When he comes back secrets are revealed and getting back what he has lost isn't easy. AU from Season 3, but many references to it. Warnings: violence, torture, hurt but also comfort
1. Chapter 1

Nobody knew. It was their secret. The best kept secret in the country. Only Mycroft and Anthea knew it for sure. Mrs. Hudson had her suspicions, but they have never confirmed it to her. He wasn't even sure if Sherlock's parent knew it. He had only met them once when Sherlock was still an addict. But it wasn't only that it was a secret, it was something that didn't fit into any common description. There was no way to pigeon-hole it. Even now he wouldn't be able to give it a label. They weren't really boyfriends. Sherlock despised the word boyfriend. And they didn't do the things normal boyfriends would do anyway. Sherlock wasn't interested in going to the pub, he hated football and he wasn't one for public displays of affection, no, he detested them. It was a strange relationship, one that began right after they met, when Sherlock was still doing drugs. Greg tried to resist for a long time. First he managed, telling Sherlock that he wouldn't start anything with him while he was doing drugs. But then Sherlock stopped the drugs and Greg was helping him through withdrawal. When Sherlock was finally clean, right when he was out of rehab he broke into Greg's flat, waiting for him on the sofa and greeting him with a smug "Now you have no excuse anymore". And that was it.

And they kept it a secret all these years. Sherlock mocking him with a different name each time they weren't alone just as to pretend that they didn't have whatever kind of relationship they had. Well, they had a close relationship, but also one that was strange. Sherlock wasn't good with emotions and it was Greg's job to sense those invisible boundaries of their relationship. But they found their way, something that was for sure difficult to explain to others, like the fact that they didn't want to live together, that Greg never stayed a night at Sherlock's place, that only Sherlock sometimes stayed at Greg's flat. Once they discussed telling John, but they agreed to wait for a good moment. But then Moriarty came along and as he used John to get Sherlock. After that they both agreed revealing their secret to John only after they managed to finish Moriarty off. But that never happened. And now Greg was alone again. And he couldn't even explain to his colleagues or to John, why he was grieving the loss more than they did. He didn't lose a consulting detective, who got on everybody's nerves, and he neither lost his best friend like John did. He lost the love of his life, the secret love of his life, the man who made him feel things he never felt with any other person in the world. Sherlock never truly said that he loved Greg, but merely nodded when Greg said it. And even though there were moments when he wasn't sure if his feelings were truly reciprocated, he still loved him.

And now there was nothing left, not a wedding ring, not even a picture of them together that wasn't taken by the press during their work. There was just this single message on his phone, typed minutes before Sherlock stepped off that roof. "It wasn't your fault. Everything will be okay." Sherlock didn't even call him when he was on that damned roof making that decision. He had called John and left the note with him, Lestrade thought bitterly. Since John stepped into Sherlock's life Greg's fears and doubts have grown. Every time Sherlock asked to meet he thought that the young men would end whatever it was that they had. But now he was dead and Greg wasn't even allowed to see him just one last time. Mycroft had been the one to identify the body and he had then hold him back, told him, it was better not to see the smashed body.

Lestrade went to the cupboard to pour himself another glass of Whiskey. He had been at home all week, suspended from work, left alone by the man he loved. He had to go to a funeral he had no idea how to survive it. And he was right the funeral was awful. Only a handful of people showed up. Not even his parents were there, strangely enough. Everybody who was there seems to concentrate on John, clearly thinking he was the one who grieved the most. And from looks of John that might as well be true. For a moment he thought about telling John, revealing the secret at last. But Mycroft had strongly advised him against it. So only Mrs. Hudson came up to him. She gave him a tight hug and whispered soothing nonsense into his ear, telling him that everything would be okay. But he knew better. Nothing would be okay.

A week after the funeral Lestrade went to the cemetery. He stood in front of the black headstone, his hand in the pocket. In his right hand he felt the ring, the ring he had wanted to put on Sherlock's finger. He had bought it a couple of months ago. He wanted to propose, but Sherlock had deduced his intentions before Greg had a chance to ask. And then the bastard demanded the ring, took a chain out of his chaotic desk and from that moment on he wore the ring on the chain around his neck. No yes, no wedding, just that. Like with everything in their relationship Sherlock didn't stick to the rules. And now Greg was standing in front of the headstone, silent tears falling down, holding the ring, not knowing what to do with it. Mycroft gave it to him, outside of the morgue the day Sherlock killed himself. Take good care of it, he had said. Take care of it, why, for whom?

* * *

><p>Mycroft was busy reading through a pile of government papers, when his phone chirped, not his usual phone, but the one only Sherlock could call. And he hasn't called it since he has left London five months ago.<p>

"Yes, brother mine." Mycroft said with a smile on his face.

But there was no answer. He could just hear somebody breathing, heavily, with a wheezing with every breath. For a moment Mycroft feared that he had revealed his brother's identity to somebody by calling him his brother.

"Hello?" He tried again.

"My? I need help." Sherlock whispered, his words accompanied by a rattling, wet cough.

"Yes. We will detect your location immediately." Mycroft answered, trying to push his fears aside. He pressed a button on his intercom and just like as she had been waiting behind the door Anthea came in.

"You need to trace Sherlock, at once. He needs help, fast." Mycroft commanded and Anthea left the room, not waiting for Mycroft to finish the sentence.

"Lock? Are you still there?" It was a stupid question as Mycroft clearly heard his brother's breathing as well as another painful sounding cough. "You don't need to talk, but don't hang up."

"Okay." Sherlock whispered as an answer.

The next minutes neither of the brothers said a single word. Mycroft just listened to his brother's wheezing breathing pattern, hoping he would keep on breathing. In the past months he hadn't heard a single word from Sherlock. Of course his agent kept track on him, so he knew that he was in Chile at the moment. Never once had it occurred to him that Sherlock could be severely injured, he was too smart and also a good fighter. But now as he had to listen to the ragged breathing of a clearly serious injured Sherlock he felt a fear he had never felt before. He realized he could lose his brother. Maybe he should say something, but he just didn't know what he could say to keep his brother alive.

After about ten minutes he could hear his agents in the room with Sherlock. The call was disconnected after they informed him that Sherlock had a stab wound in his back and that they will take him to a doctor and as soon as he would be able to be transported they would transfer him to a safe house on the coastline of Chile. Now Mycroft had to wait for more news. He hated waiting. He felt the urge to order a plane to be taken to Santiago at once, but he knew that that wouldn't be a good idea. And it would take too long anyway and he would not be able to do anything anyway. So he waited, trying to evade his feelings of fear.

It took another two hours until he got a text message informing him about Sherlock's state. He was alive. Everything would be okay. Six hours later another text messages arrived with the new location, but he had to wait another day until the special phone chirped again.

"Yes." Mycroft said as calm as possible.

"I am okay." Sherlock answered plainly. He sounded weak, but he obviously tried to conceal it.

"Good." Mycroft replied and he could hear Sherlock cough and he was sure he could hear him wince in pain, but he didn't want to comment on that. "Take care of yourself."

"I will do my very best." Sherlock answered slightly out of breath. "I will keep you informed when I am ready to move on."

"Okay. Please, take your time to heal, don't rush. If you need anything, just ..."

"I know. Thanks." Sherlock was surprised by the clearly worried undertone in his brother's voice, unsure what to do with it. So there was a minute of silence before Sherlock spoke again.

"How is he doing?"

Mycroft knew that Sherlock asked about Greg and he contemplated for a moment what to answer, but decided for the truth.

"Not good. Well, he tries to keep up a façade, but he blames himself. But I take care of him. I promised you and I do it."

Silence stretched between them and Mycroft didn't know what to say to soothe his brother's worries. But then Sherlock spoke again.

"And how are they doing?" Again Mycroft knew that that question was about Sherlock's friends.

"Not good, but I monitor them. Trust me, I will not allow that anything happens to them."

"I do. I trust you."

Mycroft felt relief flooding him. "You should rest now. You need to heal."

"Yes, I know."

Silence again.

"Don't worry, My." With that Sherlock hung up.

Mycroft felt slightly disappointed. He would have liked to talk to Sherlock a little bit longer, maybe bicker a bit like they used to do. Instead he grabbed his usual phone and called Greg's number. He would ask the other man to join him for dinner, like he has done every few weeks since Sherlock left. He would keep his promise.


	2. Chapter 2

SH3-2

He was feeling giddy. He hated it. When did he become such a sentimental slouch? Well, he knew when. It was five months, three weeks, two days and four hours ago, when he had to listen through the phone to the ragged and strenuous breathing of his injured brother, waiting for him to be rescued, far away on the other side of the world. Those minutes had changed him. He had noticed that immediately but hat dismissed it as a temporary thing. He had been so sure that he would be able to delete those feelings once Sherlock was safe again. But that turned out to be a fallacy. Yes, he had always worried about his younger brother, but this now was different, so very different. So now here he was, waiting for his brother to arrive at his townhouse, to see him for the first time since that damn day. He had taken some stupid paper work home to be there early, but he was too giddy to concentrate on anything. Instead he paced up and down in front of the window, like a tiger in a cage.

Finally a black car drove up to the front door. With the lights outside turned off, he could only see a tall dark figure hurrying up to the door. Mycroft could barely keep himself from rushing into the hall. Instead he forced himself to sit down at his desk and wait for his brother to enter his study. When that happened he just wanted to do one quick glance to take in the current appearance of his brother, then make a snide remark and return to his paper work. He failed miserably. When Sherlock entered the room Mycroft just stared. His brother was remarkably different, tall and still thin, but also definitely more muscular. His usually pale skin had a nice and healthy looking tan. His hair was short and had a strange light red-brownish color. He looked good, overall, but years of practice enabled Mycroft to see beneath the façade that his brother was so adept to put on. And what Mycroft saw was not good. Sherlock was tired and worn out.

"Hello, Mycroft." Sherlock said, still standing in the door frame. He waited for the snide remark that always came when the brothers met. But it didn't come. Mycroft just looked at him with an intense stare.

"Don't you want to say something?" Sherlock inquired.

That brought Mycroft out of this torpor. "You look tired."

Sherlock flinched at his brother's clearly worried voice and just looked at him. Just now he really took in his brother's appearance. He was really worried. This wasn't a show, wasn't something he pretended to mock at him. And just like that the last five month suddenly made sense, the help he got from his brother's minions, the way his actions were monitored, the calls and text messages from Anthea.

"You don't need to worry. I am fine." Sherlock said, not with the usual indignation but with honesty, while making a few steps into the room.

"I know. I just …" Mycroft trailed off, not quite sure what he wanted to say.

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Both brothers didn't know what to say and they both wondered why they were so incapable to deal with emotions, even in this situation, even with only the two of them present. It hadn't been this way when they were kids, but then it somehow changed.

Sherlock didn't want to deal with this right now. "Yes, I am tired. I guess some sleep in a comfortable bed instead of a sleazy hotel bed will do wonders. Do I have my room?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Everything is prepared." Mycroft answered hastily. "Do you want to eat something?"

"No, I will just retire." With that Sherlock turned around and walk away, but he stopped in the door frame. "Let us talk tomorrow."

* * *

><p>Sherlock hasn't slept so well since he had jumped off that damn roof. Hunting down Moriarty's associates and henchmen was much more difficult than he had expected. He was exhausted, truly exhausted. And the worst thing was that he knew that he was far from finishing his task. When everything started he was sure that it would take him merely a couple of month but now he was dead for a year and there were still so many people to track down. He lay down awake for a couple of minutes, lost in thought, before he dragged himself out of the bed.<p>

When he went down to the kitchen he was sure that his brother was no longer at home as it was close to noon. He surely would be at work. But to his surprise Mycroft was in the kitchen, making pancakes. Sherlock couldn't hide a sound of surprise escaping his mouth which let his brother to turn around, frying pan in his hand.

"You make pancakes?" Sherlock asked with a smile on his lips.

"Yes. You want some?" Mycroft answered, already busy again.

"Yeah, I guess so." Sherlock shrugged, not quite sure what was going on. But he sat down at the table and immediately Mycroft placed a plate with a heap of pancakes in front of him. Only seconds later a mug with coffee appeared in front of him as well.

"Are you sure, you are okay?" Sherlock asked after they both have eaten nearly all pancakes.

Mycroft felt the urge to get up to avoid the question, but instead he just sat there and kept silent.

"I mean, you are at home midday and make pancakes." Sherlock said, raising one eyebrow.

"I usually don't do that." Mycroft replied fast. "But we haven't seen each other for a while and I …" Again he didn't know how to say what he wanted to say. Damn emotions, he thought.

Sherlock just nodded and then he smiled. "I know what you mean. It is about that day in Chile, isn't it?" He didn't get an answer, but he saw his brother giving him a tiny nod. "I am fine. Everything is okay."

"I know, it is just. I could have lost you." Mycroft said. There he finally admitted it, his greatest fear.

"Yes, I know, but I am still here." Sherlock answered. "And with you minions all around I am quite sure I will be in the future." He couldn't help but put a little bit of annoyance in his voice.

Mycroft just nodded. He didn't want to look his brother in the eyes. He waited for a snide remark about how he, the ice man, could fall for sentiment, how he, who always lectured his brother that caring was not an advantage, couldn't help but care, but those remarks never came. Instead Sherlock dropped the topic.

"How is he doing?" Sherlock asked.

"Better." Mycroft answered, quite relieved that he didn't have to talk about his emotions any longer. "Better, but not good. He mourns you, but he has to hide it from everybody."

Sherlock nodded while biting his lower lip.

"But he has been reinstalled in his position four month ago. Being back in his job is good for him." Mycroft explained. "And we nearly cleared your name. I will give away the last evidence when you are ready to return just as we had agreed on."

"Yeah, good." Sherlock answered, deep in thought.

"You don't consider telling him, do you?" Mycroft asked.

"No, no, that would be too dangerous. He is still being watched, right?" Sherlock answered.

"Yes, they still watch all three of them, Greg, John and Mrs. Hudson. They watch them and we monitor them." Mycroft explained.

Sherlock nodded again. He wished he could finish his task soon.

"You want to see some observation material?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes." The answer came fast, even though Sherlock wasn't sure if he would be able to bear watching Greg, or even John or Mrs. Hudson.

"I thought so. I put a notebook with the material on the drawing room." Mycroft said. "And now I will have to work." With that he got up and was about to leave the kitchen. "How long will you stay?"

"A couple of days." Sherlock answered.

"Don't do something stupid. Stay here, please." Mycroft said with a small voice that made Sherlock turn around to face his brother. Of course Sherlock knew what Mycroft meant with something stupid. Something like visiting his own grave like he had done after his funeral, putting everything at risk just to see the people he loved once more.

"I won't, don't worry. I will stay here. Sleeping and probably eating those leftover pancakes." Sherlock said smiling after he finished the last sentence.

"Do so." Mycroft said and smiled as well before finally leaving.

Something had changed between them and both of them liked it, even though neither of them would really acknowledge that openly in front of the other. But with both brothers' ability of deduction they both knew it.


	3. Chapter 3

He had waited in the cover of a large hedge, watching them from afar, not without envy. John had moved on, he had Mary. It was the anniversary of the worst day of his life and here he was, hidden behind some shrubs and trees, watching a friend taking the hand of his girlfriend, while standing in front of a black tombstone. And he envied them, for the fact that they were not alone. This was pathetic, Greg thought, while watching John and Mary leaving the cemetery. Just when he was sure that they were past the gates Greg moved from his hiding place to walk up to the tombstone himself.

"Two years." He said, sadness leaking through his voice. "Two years and it still feels the same." Tears started running down his cheeks.

"John has moved on. Have you seen her? Mary. She is good for him. He wants to propose to her." He knew he talk to a stone, but after those two years he didn't care anymore. It was the only thing left. He came here and talked to the golden letters on the black stone, because he needed it. He needed to say those things he hadn't said to the man while he was alive.

"I haven't moved on, just in case you want to know." Greg said with a shrug. "Gregson had set up a blind date for me, with his cousin. She was nice, really, but I just couldn't … I miss you, still miss you so much."

Greg kneeled down in front of the tombstone. He pulled out the chain with ring from underneath his shirt.

"I still have it." He paused. "I cannot stop wearing it. It is my only reminder. This and this damn black stone with your name on it."

More tears came. "I still love you." Greg whispered and couldn't stop the tears from falling. He sobbed and hoped nobody would see him. But of course he was wrong. A small camera and a microphone were placed in the large tree beside Sherlock's tombstone. And on the other side of London Mycroft watched and listened to every visitor to his brother's fake grave. He watched Greg cry for a while before he took his special phone and looked for a message, but there was none. It should have been done by now. All this should have been done by now. Everything should be back to normal.

* * *

><p>The last task and he failed. He was nearly done. It was the last part of the web he needed to destroy. He had done it all, never blew his cover. Yes, there were some close encounters. He had survived being stabbed in Chile, being beaten in Hong Kong and shot at in Prague. He had caught dengue fever in Brazil and he even fell through a window in Shanghai. And now, after so many dangerous operations it was a simple break-in that would lead to his defeat. He was too tired, he made a mistake. He should have allowed Mycroft's minions to help him. Or at least he should have waited until he was on the top of his game again, but he so desperately wanted it to be over, after two years he just wanted to go home, back to London, back to Greg, to his friends and to his work. But his desire to finish this final mission clouded his reason. He had acted carelessly and now home was slipping further away.<p>

He had given up hope. Two weeks were enough to make him give up hope. He couldn't believe it, but it had just happened. It wasn't due to the fact that he was held in a damp and cold cell with barely anything to keep him warm. And it wasn't even the torture, not at the beginning at least. Of course it wasn't nice. There was the searing pain of electroshocks, but he could manage pain, his brain could analyze it, he could dissect it and store it away in the depth of his mind palace. And it was a pain that left him once a session was finished and he was back in the cell. It was more difficult to deal with the waterboarding, with this never ending panic, this feeling to drown. It didn't matter how much he rationally knew that they would not drown him for real, he panicked anyway. No, it wasn't that. His hope dwindled first when he realized that even his brilliant mind wasn't able to find a way to escape from this dark fortress in the middle of nowhere in Serbia. He nearly managed once but they caught him in the forest and now they kept him in shackles all of the time, in stress positions, unable to move most of the times. He felt himself slipping away a little bit every day. Well, he lost track of the time anyway. The pain, the cold, the torture effected his mind more than he would have ever imagined. After they caught him again he decided to use the code name that Mycroft had given him for such a case. It hopefully would be noticed so that Mycroft would send someone to rescue him. He hated it, because it meant to admit his defeat, admit that he needed the help of his brother.

And as if he needed another reason for admitting his defeat they brought in a new interrogator – different methods, whips, fists, more stress positions, ice water and sleep deprivation. After one day, well he didn't really know if it was really only one day, but after the first session he gave away the code name and hoped for a fast rescue. With the new interrogator he wasn't so sure anymore if they would care to keep him alive. And he wasn't sure how long he would be able to stay alive. But nobody came. Every time someone opened his cell he hoped to see a familiar face, one of Mycroft's minions. But that didn't happen. But instead it were some of the guards dragging him away to the interrogation room.

Day after day he had to notice how not only his mind but also his health deteriorated. While electrocution was painful and waterboarding was mentally and physical exhausting, the torture of his new interrogator left more damage: open wounds on his back from the whip, broken ribs and deep bruises from the beatings, never ending pain. And the cough he acquired in the cold cell blossomed due to the ice water that was used to keep him awake for hours, maybe days. He recognized the fever, couldn't stop shivering and sweating simultaneously. He tried to use his mind palace as an escape. He tried to think about home, not about Greg or his friends. No, that caused too much anguish. Instead he used the small things to keep his mind somewhere else – his violin and the haunting melodies he would compose once he was home again, his armchair, so comfortable, keeping his toes warm in front of the fireplace, his experiments in the kitchen. But sooner or later his brain provided him with memories of Greg, how they laughed over take-away on the sofa, how they dropped into Greg's bed after a wild chase after some stupid criminals, how they sometimes just walked side by side through the Regent Park very early in the morning without talking, just to sit on a bench, silently next to each other. It was painful when those memories flooded his thoughts, when the stark contrast between his past and his current situation was undeniable. And the longer the torture sessions took the more he lost control of his mind palace. The sleep deprivation, the fever and the by now constant pain wrecked his mental abilities. His only refuge just slipped away, doors closed in front of him and he didn't know a way to open them again.

And with every day that passed without Mycroft's men coming through the door of his cell he felt how his hope to ever make it back to London evaporated. He would not be able to see the man he loved again, would not meet his friends again. He even felt sad realizing that he would never meet his brother again. And when he finally thought about his parents he broke down, silent tears mixed with the pearls of fever sweat on his face. He was so tired, so defeated. But his thoughts were interrupted when the door to his cell was opened, again not from somebody to come and rescue him, but by the guards who took him away to another session of torture although he was barely able to keep himself on his feet. This time might be the last time, he thought, maybe they would overstep the mark and kill him. It was an odd kind of relief that flooded his brain. His death wasn't something that frightened him anymore it was something he looked forward by now. His hope was gone completely, finally. And he knew when he would die without telling them anything, without them recognizing who he was, then his overall mission was not in danger. Mycroft would take care of that.


	4. Chapter 4

„Anything?" He asked his assistant as soon as she entered his office.

"No. Nothing at all." Anthea replied without looking up from her phone. Only as the silence between them stretched on she finally looked up at her boss. "Should we search for him?"

Mycroft bit is lower lip, thinking about the implications of that. He hasn't heard anything from Sherlock for three weeks. Since he had faked his suicide and went undercover to dismantle Moriarty's network there had been several occasions when he was so deep undercover that he couldn't stay in contact for weeks. Usually some of Mycroft's people kept track on him, especially since the incidence in Chile, but sometimes it was just too dangerous to follow him. And in the end Sherlock was always victorious. Somehow this time it was different. This time he was supposed to find a way to break into the house of Baron Maupertuis in Serbia, steal the evidence, blow up the house and leave. All of it should have been done in less than a week, including preparation time. Something was wrong and even though Mycroft surely wasn't the kind of person to base his decisions on a gut feeling, this time his gut feeling was urging him to search for his brother.

Anthea was patiently waiting for his decision, not offering any advice what to do. Silence filled the room until a knock on the heavy metal door disturbed Mycroft's thinking. A young man in a grey suit opened the door and stayed in the entrance looking rather unsure whether to enter the room or not.

"Sir?" He said, clearly addressing Mycroft.

"Yes?" Mycroft answered.

"The code name has been searched for." The young man answered, waiting a moment before adding "We located the source. It is an old fortress on the outskirts of a village in the south of Serbia."

Mycroft needed all his internal power not to show his worries. Sherlock used the code name, gave it away to somebody. That meant he was held captive with no hope of making an escape without help.

"Anthea, activate the rescue plan. I want to be in Serbia in the evening." Mycroft tried to say as calm as possible.

"You want to join the rescue team?" Anthea asked with a hint of surprise in her voice.

"Yes." Mycroft said looking her in the eyes. She understood, this was something he had to do. He may pretend that he and Sherlock don't get along and that he only cares for the impact of his brother's action for Queen and country, but Anthea knew that behind that façade he cared deeply.

* * *

><p>To get into the fortress would be easy. To get out of it alive probably wouldn't be that easy especially given the fact that they didn't know the state Sherlock was in. Mycroft was sure that Sherlock would have never given away the code name if he wasn't in a very desperate situation. But in order not to risk a failure of the rescue mission they needed another two days to prepare everything. Two days don't seem much considering the scale of the operation but Mycroft knew full well that two days could mean the difference between life and death for Sherlock. So while being able to keep his calm façade in all team meetings Mycroft became giddy inside. Not knowing if his brother was still alive or how seriously he was injured was barely tolerable.<p>

So when he finally walked into the fortress disguised as a high ranking commander of the network, he felt a strange ease. Finally they would do something. He easily lied his way in using his newly acquired Serbian. He was fast shown down into the dungeons of the old fortress, where he was told that they were sure that they were making progress with a very obstinate prisoner. Mycroft had to hide a smile, he knew it had to be Sherlock. When he entered the interrogation cell he felt a strange relief seeing him, although his brother was chained up in what was surely an uncomfortable position. But one closer look was enough to replace the relief with worry. There was blood and grime covering his brother's body, faint and new bruises nearly everywhere. Sherlock was slumped forward, straining his shoulders, obviously unable to keep himself up, totally exhausted. Mycroft noticed that Sherlock was sweating and shivering. Fever, that wasn't good. And his breathing was shallow and labored, but he was breathing. Sherlock was alive. Mycroft had to use all his self-control to stay in his role as he felt the impulse to rush to his brother immediately, but he knew that the rest of the team needed some time to prepare for their escape, so he had to sit down at a table just a few feet away from his brother. He wondered if Sherlock had recognized him.

The interrogator moved up to Sherlock and started beating him with brutal force. Mycroft couldn't help but to flinch and he desperately hoped for a signal from his team, but that didn't come. So for the next minutes that felt more like hours he had to watch and listened to the impact of the fists on his brother's body. Mycroft was sure that he could hear the cracking of some ribs, but Sherlock merely grunted in pain and tried to stifle a cough that would surely cause more pain. Mycroft could see blood and saliva dripping on the floor. And the interrogator was getting more and more enraged with the lack of response. He went to a nearby table and grabbed a pipe. "You broke in here for a reason. Just tell us why and you can sleep. Remember sleep?" He yelled.

Sleep deprivation, Mycroft thought, something Sherlock would know how to deal with it for quite a while, but at a certain point everybody had to sleep, especially when injured. But then the interrogator raised the pipe in his hand and Mycroft flinched. Being hit by the pipe would cause irreparable damage. Mycroft thought that he had to intervene even if his team wasn't ready yet, but then Sherlock started to talk. Mycroft could not hear the whispering speech of his brother but as the interrogator repeated each sentence Mycroft realized that they were deductions. He couldn't help the small smile that appeared on his lips as he noticed the anger those sentences caused. Now he was sure that Sherlock had recognized his presence, that he knew he would be rescued and that he used the deductions to drive the interrogator out of the dungeon.

As soon as the Serbian had left the room, Mycroft stood up. "So, my friend. Now it's just you and me. You have no idea the trouble it took to find you. Now listen to me. There's an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent. Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear. Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes." The teasing joke should make the situation more bearable for both of them, more like their normal encounters, their normal bickering. But when Mycroft opened the shackle that held his brother's left arm up the full impact of his brother's state hit him as Sherlock wasn't able to hold himself up anymore but just slumped to the floor, grunting in pain. With all his weight on his still restrained right arm the shoulder joint just made a plopping sound indicating that the shoulder was dislocated. As fast as he could Mycroft opened the second shackle and carefully arranged Sherlock's right arm in what he hoped was not a too painful position. Then he knelt down beside his brother who was now lying on the cold and wet floor, obviously unable to move, shivering, curled up, his breathing strenuous and ragged.

"You can stay this way for a moment. The team is nearly ready to get us out. Then you need to get up. Do you think you can walk?" Mycroft whispered to his brother, but he got no answer, just a painful sounding cough. Mycroft took a moment to notice the burn marks and infected gashes on his brother's back, before he took off his heavy coat and carefully placed it over his brother. He wondered how they would make it out of the fortress with his brother in such a bad state.

Neither of them said another word. Mycroft had drawn his gun, the other hand resting on his brother's naked shoulder under the coat, feeling the trembling under his hand, the skin feverish hot. Mycroft's eyes focused on the door, waiting for either some Serbian returning or someone from his team entering. It took only a couple of minutes, but again it felt like hours until finally the door opened with a creak. The man who walked in was Wallace, the leader of the rescue team. He just nodded to Mycroft, turned around and started to look up and down the hallway.

"We have to go, brother mine." Mycroft said while carefully trying to help his brother up. Sherlock slowly got up, but hissed in pain once Mycroft helped him into the coat and placed his arm around Sherlock's ribcage in order to support him. More than just a couple of broken ribs, Mycroft thought and tried not to grip too tight while still holding his brother up.

As they slowly worked their way through the fortress towards the exit they could hear shots being fired, Serbian shouts and curses filling the hallways. They were just about half way up the stairs when one of the Serbians appeared at the top of the stairs. Wallace who was always in front of them pressed both Mycroft and Sherlock against the wall to cover them and then he fired instantly. Mycroft loosened the grip on Sherlock and fired his gun as well before he recognized that his brother wasn't able to lean against the wall without support and stumbled down a couple of stairs. Mycroft jumped down as well, not thinking about the shooter at the top of the stairs. He knelt down beside his brother and he immediately noticed the difference in his breathing pattern. He heard wheezes and each breath was accompanied by a gruesome rattle and with the next cough spots of bright red blood appeared on his lips. At least one of the broken rips must have punctured the lung due to the stumble on the stairs.

"Don't you dare to give up." Mycroft cursed, forcing his brother up again, keeping a tight grip around his waist.

They made their way upstairs; Mycroft carried his brother more than that Sherlock walked by himself. Once upstairs they joined the rest of the team and Wallace helped getting Sherlock into the waiting van. Sherlock passed out the moment he was lying down. Mycroft was relieved that he had the foresight to order a medical team to accompany them. It was waiting for them at the airfield. He hoped Sherlock would be able to make it as he noticed the increasing effort it took his brother to breath.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock wasn't sure what was happening. He thought that it was Mycroft that had entered the interrogation cell, but then the beating just continued. Whoever it was just sat down in the dark corner and watched it. Mycroft would not watch him being beaten to a pulp, or would he? Sherlock wasn't sure what to do. He wanted to take a closer look at the stranger but he couldn't raise his head and the interrogator just didn't stop screaming at him, beating him. He had no energy left. He just wanted it to end, to escape the pain, to die if necessary. When he saw that the interrogator grabbing the pipe he was about to give in, to just let it happen. One more hit against his ribcage would certainly be enough to push one or two of his already broken ribs into his lung and that would kill him. It was a strangely satisfying thought. It would not be a nice death but it would be over soon, no more pain, no more fighting. But it was that person, sitting in the dark corner that made him change his mind. He wasn't sure that he had recognized Mycroft's voice in that strange Serbian language but something in his posture reminded him of his brother. And if it was indeed Mycroft then there was hope. So he gathered all his remaining strength and he spewed out the facts that he had already deduced about his interrogator. And as predicted it drove him away.

But things became blurry after that. The stranger spoke to him in Serbian, but he sounded like Mycroft, didn't he? It was his brother, or wasn't it? He was teasing him as usual. "The holiday is over." Why would he say that? Why would Mycroft tease him when he was barely able to stay conscious? The last few times when he was injured Mycroft was really concerned and now he jibed at him, in a situation like this. It didn't make sense and somehow his sluggish brain wasn't able to process those contradictions. And his body wasn't able to make the movements necessary to look the man in the eyes. But whoever it was, he released him from those shackles, but as Sherlock couldn't keep himself upright any longer he felt his right shoulder dislocate due to the strain of bearing his entire weight. It was just adding more pain, too much pain. He felt his vision darken. From far away he heard somebody talking to him, but his mind was too busy dealing with the pain. Then somebody covered him with a warm coat. Could it be Mycroft after all? Or was it just a hallucination? He had to cough, adding more pain. Then he was dragged up and they walked away, whoever it was he held him in a firm grip. Sherlock wanted to ask if it was Mycroft, but somehow he wasn't able to get out a single word. He had used up all his energy. It was hard enough to just keep on breathing as he also tried not to stumble. He barely noticed that shots were fired, that they were on the stairs. And he just wasn't able to stand up on his own once he wasn't supported any longer, not even with the support of the wall in his back. He slipped down, felt another sharp pain in his left side. Breathing became more difficult, the taste of blood in his mouth even more dominating. And then he was lifted up again. He heard the voice of his brother, telling him not to give up, but by now he was somehow very much sure that this must be a hallucination, a comforting vision to make it easier for him to die. He was dragged away once more. Then everything became dark. It was over, finally over, was his last thought.

* * *

><p>But it wasn't over. Sherlock woke up, not knowing how much time had passed. He wasn't sure where he was either. It was neither the interrogation room nor his cold cell. Everything was kind of foggy and unclear. He noticed a very faint yellow light in an otherwise dark room. Maybe he was dead, really dead. But no, he felt pain and he was still freezing and shivering, still feverish then. But why was he not in his cell? Before he could analyze his situation more in-depth he realized that he was not chained up anymore and so without any further thinking he tried to get up, ignoring the pain shooting through is body. But then he felt a warm hand on his left shoulder pushing him back. In panic he tried to escape to the right side, but he couldn't move his right arm to give him support. Instead he felt two hands holding him back.<p>

"Brother, don't fight. You are safe. You are in London."

He recognized that voice. It was his brother and for a moment he calmed down. But he wasn't sure that it was real. It couldn't be real, he couldn't be in London. If that would be the case then it was Mycroft getting him out, but Mycroft never did legwork. So he must still be in the fortress, just in another part of it. So when he sensed another person beside him he just wanted to get away. He struggled against the hands holding him down, still trying to escape, but the hands pressed him down, increasing the pain in his shoulder and his ribcage.

"Greg, please." he whispered, not knowing why he couldn't stop his fevered brain from calling out that name. He couldn't risk it. It was too dangerous. Once again he tried to get away from the hands holding him down.

"No, Greg is not here, it is me. Please Sherlock, stop fighting. You gonna hurt yourself." The voice of his brother was there again, but that couldn't be right.

Sherlock was too weak to get away. Pain just flooded through his body and he noticed how his vision started to darken again. He could still feel the two hands on his shoulders and a tall figure towering above him. And then he felt how the second person beside him grabbed his arm. He was sure they would start to torture him again. He felt a wet cold cloth on his face. So it would be another session of waterboarding, he thought. He expected the water, the panic, but the only thing that happened was that suddenly he felt the pain subsiding and darkness encompassing him, dragging him into unconsciousness.

* * *

><p>Mycroft was exhausted. He hasn't slept for 34 hours, since he woke up in Serbia yesterday morning. But it wasn't the lack of sleep that drained his remaining strength. He was emotionally worn out. Those 34 hours were a rollercoaster ride. Just a moment ago he had to watching his brother struggling again as he came to conscious, feverish unable to realize that he was safe.<p>

Yesterday Mycroft had thought that everything would be fine once they would make it alive back to the airfield. But the following hours proved him wrong. First the doctor that accompanied them had to perform an emergency chest drain on the plane to keep Sherlock breathing. And throughout the flight back to London Mycroft had to press the ambu bag rhythmically, his brother's breathing in his hands, while watching the doctor tend to Sherlock's multiple wounds. Once they arrived in London a professional medical team took over, leaving Mycroft feeling relieved but also peculiar useless. For the next three hours Mycroft was condemned to wait.

When he was finally told that Sherlock was stable and transferred to a private room he relaxed. But seeing Sherlock in that bed, attached to wires and tubes and looking so frail and wrecked, stirred so many different emotions in Mycroft that he just stood in the door frame for several minutes, not daring to move forward. It was bad watching Sherlock been beaten in that cell, but this was even worse. In the end he could calm himself down. Everything would be fine, he told himself. Sherlock got the best care. He would heal and everything would turn back to how it was before Sherlock had to leave. That believe crumpled once Sherlock regained consciousness for the first time, because he didn't regain real consciousness. The fever left him dazed and confused and he merely recognized his brother's voice. Instead he tried to get up and flee. That happened several times in the next hours and left Mycroft fearing for his brother's life once more. In the end the doctors put Sherlock under heavier sedation but they told Mycroft immediately that it could only be applied for a limited time, because it interfered with some other necessary medicine. But nevertheless the sedation gave Mycroft a desperately needed break. He needed help, he knew that. And Greg was his first choice. He needed Greg to calm down Sherlock when he would panic again. Greg would be able to do it. The only question that remained was how he would react to the news that Sherlock's suicide was a ruse, Mycroft thought while sending a message to Anthea.


	6. Chapter 6

He hasn't seen Mycroft for two month, which was unusual. Greg still was quite surprised that Sherlock's brother seemed to care for his well-being. Every few weeks ever since the funeral the well known black car appeared in front of the Scotland Yard building just when Greg left the building or in front of his home just when he arrived there. And then he found himself brought either to the Diogenes Club, to a nice restaurant and he even has been in Mycroft's lavish townhouse a couple of times. At the beginning there were heated arguments and Greg even punched Mycroft once. But in the end he knew that he himself was as guilty as Mycroft when it came to the reasons for Sherlock's suicide. They both had lost someone they loved and they both had nobody else to talk about that loss. But after a while they didn't speak about Sherlock so much anymore. Sometimes Greg mentioned that he missed him and Mycroft would just nod in agreement. But usually they spoke about Greg's job, about politics or just the weather. And Greg was quite sure – even though Mycroft never confirmed it – that it was his intervention that sped up the investigation and that proved that Sherlock really solved those cases for the Yard and that he wasn't a fake. Even though there were still some doubts, some loose ends, Greg had being reinstated in his previous job.

So after two month without a word one morning the black car appeared in front of his apartment building just as he was about to take the tube to the Yard. Greg opened the door and smiled. Anthea was waiting for him.

"Nice to see you, but I have to be at the Yard in half an hour." Greg said through the open door.

"That has been taken care of. You have this day off." She said calmly, gesturing him to get in the car.

He must admit that he was not against having a day off after a truly grueling week, but he hated that he had no say in it, that Mycroft just decided for him. In the end he got into the car and to his surprise it didn't drove him to the Diogenes Club or Mycroft's house. Instead they drove far outside of London and ended up at military base. Greg knew of course that Mycroft, with his minor position in the British government, had connections to the military, but he found this location for a meeting rather strange never the less. When Greg followed Anthea into one of the bigger buildings he was still not sure what to expect. Anthea led him to a rather large but totally anonymous looking office where Mycroft was seated behind an empty desk.

"Well, interesting location for a meeting." Greg joked and smiled.

"Please, Gregory, have a seat. We need to talk." Mycroft said with a voice that somehow sounded tired and defeated. It was only then that Greg took a closer look. Mycroft really looked exhausted, with dark bags under his eyes and a very slight tremble in his hands.

"Everything okay?" Greg asked while he sat down.

"I hope it will be." Mycroft answered. Silence filled the room while Mycroft just stared at the blank surface of the empty desk.

"So?" Greg asked.

"Yes. I need to tell you something and I really beg you to listen to me til the end before you say something or do something. Okay?" That was really an unusual request. Mycroft usually didn't beg he ordered, Greg thought, but he said nothing, just nodded and waited.

"I've never told you the reason." Mycroft began. "The reason why he jumped off that roof." Greg tensed for a moment, but he didn't dare to say anything. "Moriarty had threatened three people Sherlock cares about deeply. You, John and Mrs. Hudson. He had snipers on each one of you. If Sherlock wouldn't have jumped, you all would have died that day."

Greg gaped and couldn't stop himself asking: "How do you know that and why do you tell me that now? After two years."

"I know it because we have anticipated that Moriarty would try to force Sherlock to commit suicide. And I tell it to you now because it is time for you to know it. Because you need to understand the reasons for the things that happened afterwards, the reasons for the decisions we made that day."

"We?" Greg asked.

"We – Sherlock and I. We decided that the only way to finish Moriarty off would be to make him believe he had won. So Sherlock jumped, but he didn't die." Mycroft stopped and waited for the impact of that revelation.

It took Greg quite some time to realize what he had just heard. He jumped up from his seat and screamed. "He is alive? He let me think he was dead? He let me grieve for two years?" Greg was just about to jump over the desk to punch Mycroft in the face. "You both lied to me for two years?"

Mycroft leaned back a bit and just nodded. "Please Gregory, sit down, there is more I have to tell you. You need to listen."

"You don't tell me what to do. Where is that bastard? Why doesn't he tell me all of this himself? Is he afraid that I would punch him? He should be." Greg ranted.

"Please, Gregory, sit down and listen. Sherlock cannot tell you all of this himself." Mycroft tried to calm down the other man.

"Why not? Why? And what the hell has he been doing the past two years? Did that sick bastard had fun watching me grieve?" Greg was angrily pacing up and down in front of the desk.

Finally Mycroft snapped and abruptly stood up. "No, he didn't have fun. And he cannot tell you because he is in a hospital."

Greg stopped his pacing, suddenly all his anger has been replaced by fear. "Hospital?"

"Please, Gregory, I will tell you everything. Don't worry, he is alive and he will be okay." Mycroft added 'hopefully' to the sentence in his mind as he really wasn't sure that his brother would be okay as he had witnessed Sherlock's panicked flashbacks. He decided to bring Greg to Sherlock immediately. "We are here because he is in the military hospital here on this base right now." Mycroft said while he got up and led Greg to the door.

On the way to the hospital building and to Sherlock's room Mycroft told Greg everything. And Greg listened to the whole story without asking a single question, how Sherlock fooled Moriarty, how Moriarty killed himself, how they had to use the contingency plan, how they had hoped that they would only need to keep the ruse up for a couple of days, how they found out that Moriarty made sure that even when the three initial snipers would have been caught that others would be there to do the job, how Sherlock decided that dismantling the whole network would be the only solution, the only way to keep them all safe and how that took two years. Mycroft only hinted how many dangerous situations occurred, but it was enough for Greg to want to ask more questions, but he felt it wasn't the moment to do that and that Mycroft would probably not tell him anyway. When the story ended with Sherlock's capture in Serbia Greg was utterly shocked and just wanted one thing - to get to Sherlock as soon as possible.


	7. Chapter 7

Greg was standing in front of the window that separated Sherlock's room from the hallway. Through the half open blinds he saw him. Sherlock's eyes were closed; his hair was too long and even though it was clean it gave him a look like a rebellious teenager who is living rough, reminding Greg on the first time they both met, when Sherlock was still doing drugs and ended up in hospital as well. But the long hair was the only reminder. Everything else was so different. Sherlock looked older, much older, maybe because of the unhealthy skin color and the bruises Greg could spot even from this far away. All over Sherlock seemed way too small and vulnerable in that hospital bed. Greg couldn't stop looking at him but he simultaneously tried to listen to what the doctor beside him told him about Sherlock's injuries and about the infections that ravished his body. Even after Mycroft has told him on the way to the hospital that Sherlock was captured, he didn't expect such an extensive list of injuries. While the doctor listed the injuries Greg realized that those injuries could only have one cause: torture. Sherlock had been tortured. Greg really had to force himself not to vomit. He turned to Mycroft.

"How long before you got him out?" Greg asked, not even trying to hide his anger.

"Anything between two and three weeks, I don't know the exact time frame." Mycroft answered, his eyes glued to his brother, his voice small and defeated.

Greg just nodded as he could see the distress in Mycroft's posture. And while he was still angry with Sherlock, he knew he had to get into this room now and tell him that everything will be okay. So when the doctor started to talk about the forthcoming therapy Greg just gestured him to stop.

"We can talk about that later. I will go in there now." With that he wanted to leave the doctor and Mycroft in front of the window, but Mycroft stopped him by grabbing his arm.

"Since we brought him here he hasn't been very lucid. He panics every time he wakes up. He still seems to believe that he is held captive." Mycroft explained with a soft voice.

"We tried to sedate him, but it doesn't work very well with him. And due to the other medication we cannot use heavier sedation. So if he wakes up and is disoriented, try to calm him down." The doctor added.

"He sometimes reacts to my voice, but not very well. I am quite sure he will recognize your voice. He called your name." Mycroft said.

Greg just nodded and carefully opened the door to the room. Slowly he walked up to the bed and sat down on the chair beside it. His hand reached out to Sherlock's hand, careful not to wake him up. He took a closer look at the broken body of the man he loved. Bruises were covering nearly every inch of his skin that was visible. A chest tube was attached to the left side of his ribcage. A nasal cannula helped Sherlock to get enough oxygen. Both wrists were covered in bandages. Greg remembered what the doctor has told him, that the skin of Sherlock's wrists had been badly chafed by shackles and that the skin was infected. Greg couldn't stop the tears from falling. He turned his look to Sherlock's right shoulder that was bandaged too so that he couldn't move the right arm, giving the overstretched tendons and joints some rest. Greg could feel the heat of fever radiating from Sherlock's body. The doctor had told him that the worst wounds, the deep ones that were heavily infected, that those were on his back and right now Greg was grateful that he couldn't see them. Instead he looked up to the heart monitor by his side that showed a steady heart beat, the sound thankfully turned down to a quite beeping.

Greg felt like he was sitting there for hours before he noticed a change in Sherlock's state. His eyes fluttered open just a bit every now and then, indicating that he was starting to come to consciousness. Before Greg could say anything Sherlock tried to get up, hissing in pain, but obviously not quite aware of where he was.

"Shhh, sunshine, I am here." Greg tried to calm him down and immediately Sherlock looked him into the eyes. It pained Greg to see all the insecurity and pain in those eyes, the eyes he fell in love with the first moment he saw them all those years ago. Greg remembered what Mycroft had told him, about how Sherlock was not always sure that he didn't hallucinated his rescue, that his first impulse on waking up was to flee.

"You are safe. Mycroft got you out. You are back in London." Greg said in a soft and soothing tone. Those words seemed to do the trick as Sherlock let himself fall back into the cushion, moaning a bit in pain as his back touched the mattress, closing his eyes for a brief moment before he looked at Greg again.

"Greg?" Sherlock whispered, hardly audible.

Greg saw all the doubt in Sherlock's eyes. "Yes, it's me. Mycroft called me."

Sherlock tried to turn his body to get closer to Greg, he wanted to touch Greg's face, wanted to feel the skin to determine if this was real. He tried to lift his hand, but even that seemed to be too much for Sherlock's exhausted body. His breathing became ragged and he couldn't suppress a cough, pain ripped through his body.

"Shhh, I know, I know. Don't talk. You need to rest. I am here and I will be here every time you wake up. I promise." Greg tried to calm him down, reaching out his thumb caressing Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock tried to even out his breathing. He desperately wanted to say something, but Greg didn't let him, putting a finger on his lips.

"Shhh, we can talk when you feel better. Mycroft told me everything. I am angry with you, be sure about that. Oh, yes, I am mad at you, but I am even happier to have you back. So please just rest now. Everything will be fine, I promise." Greg said softly, leaning down, giving him a chaste kiss on the forehead first, then adding another one on the lips.

Everything will be fine. Sherlock wasn't quite sure if he could believe that, but he was too exhausted to think about it. But the feeling on his lips was nice and so familiar. Oh and that scent, he knew that. With that thought Sherlock drifted off to sleep again.

* * *

><p>The next days were filled with fever and flashbacks. The fever spiked several times as the antibiotics didn't seem to work and the doctors had to try different ones to fight of the infection. Every time Sherlock woke up his feverish mind told him that he was back in that cell. But every time that occurred he heard Greg's soothing voice, his warm hands and soft lips calming him down.<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

After a couple of days the fever finally went down and with it the flashbacks and the confusion became less frequent. When Sherlock woke up on the third day the world was finally less foggy. He realized immediately that he must be in some kind of hospital, as he noticed the white all around him and the smell only a hospital can emit. When his head was clear enough to really look at his surroundings he saw Greg, snoring quietly in a chair beside his bed, his head leant against the mattress of the bed. But since something in Sherlock still wasn't absolutely sure that this was real, he wanted to shift a bit in order to reach Greg with his hand. The movement caused a sharp pain in his ribcage and he couldn't stop himself from moaning out in pain. It obviously was loud enough to wake Greg.

"Sherlock? Don't move." Greg shouted, jumping up and placing one hand on his shoulder while the other reached out to the call button. "I will get a nurse to raise your dose of painkillers."

"Greg?" Sherlock whispered through gritted teeth, because even though he had immediately stopped moving the pain was still there, stabbing him with every breath he took. Of course he knew that that pain was probably caused by the broken ribs and the wounds on his back. And he couldn't help the memories of that damp and dark cell vividly appearing in his mind. He nearly panicked when the nurse came in and appeared beside his bed and touched him. But he forced himself not to move as she adjusted the infusions and the painkillers. As the relief of the painkillers flooded his body he was able to relax. He waited until the nurse had left the room and Greg had settled himself in the chair besides his bed.

"I am sorry." Sherlock whispered. He knew they would need to talk about his staged suicide. "I never wanted to hurt you. If there would have been another way to keep you safe I would have ..." His breathing became so rapid that he had to stop speaking. So he decided to wait for a reaction of the man he loved. Greg just looked at him and inwardly Sherlock cursed that he was so bad in reading people's emotions. He wanted to say something, apologize once more, but then Greg took his hand and softly kissed his knuckles.

"I loved you, I always have." Greg started and Sherlock felt his heart crumble as he heard the past tense. "I never knew what that was between us. I was never sure what you felt for me, but I was always sure that I loved you." There it was again, loved, past tense. Sherlock wanted to intervene, but Greg shushed him putting a finger on his lips.

"So your suicide was the worst thing that ever happened to me. And believe me if it would have been you and not Mycroft telling me about the ruse I would have punched you really, really hard." Sherlock smiled a bit, yes that would have been the kind of reaction he would have expected. "You are lucky that by now I had a couple of days to think about everything and that your brother told me everything. I still wished you would have told me right away, would have sent me some kind of sign." Greg looked angry while he spoke, at least that was what Sherlock thought. He wanted to say something, but Greg stopped him again. "And no, I mean not that cryptic text message."

"I am sorry. It was too dangerous." Sherlock whispered again, closing his eyes. He didn't dare to look Greg in the eyes. He knew it was over, Greg was here with him because he was sick, but he would leave him once he was better. The love for him was a thing of the past, he had said it, Sherlock thought as he desperately tried to stop the tears that formed behind his closed eyes. He had lost him, he was so sure.

"I know. And as I said I had quite some time to think about it and in the end I am not sure if I would have done it differently when it would have been me on that roof and you would have been the one threatened." Greg said, his hand reaching out to Sherlock's chin, nudging him to look him in the eyes. "Look at me. I love you, still do. I cannot help it, sunshine." Greg said with a smile. He got closer to kiss a surprised Sherlock. It was a chaste kiss, barely lasting a few seconds, but in it was everything Sherlock needed.

"I love you, too." Sherlock whispered when they parted and Sherlock had no chance to hold back those tears. Greg couldn't help but stare at Sherlock. He had never heard those words from him before. And every time he himself had told Sherlock that he loved him Greg could sense how those words made Sherlock feel uncomfortable. The only reaction he ever got was a nearly invisible nod of acknowledgement.

"I know, I haven't said it in the past." Sherlock said fast, seeing the confusion on Greg's face. "I should have. I love you. I always have. And I realized that when I had to leave London, that I never told you. I guess I needed to lose you to realize what I've lost." More tears were falling but Sherlock couldn't care less.

"You haven't lost me." Greg said softly leaning in for more kisses that he placed on the wet cheeks, kissing those tears away. "But you will have to be very nice to me for a very long time to make up for everything." Greg said with a mischievous smile.

"I will do my very best." Sherlock said and he chuckled even though that hurt his still healing ribs but he could avoid wincing. He didn't want to worry Greg and ruin this moment. He brushed away the remaining tears, gaining back some composure.

"I will remind you, be sure of that." Greg said and he reached down into his left pocket and fished out the ring with the chain and he handed it to Sherlock who just stared at the ring in his hand. And again Sherlock couldn't stop the tears streaming down his cheeks. He felt Greg's thumb on his cheek but he couldn't stop staring at the ring.

"Mycroft told me to take good care of it." Greg explained. "Maybe I should have understood that as a clue, but I didn't."

Sherlock couldn't stop his tears. "No, no, I should have ..." But Greg shushed with a finger on his lips.  
>"Everything will be okay." And for the first time since the fall Sherlock believed that that was the truth.<p>

* * *

><p>Sherlock has finally come to accept that he was safe, that he was in a hospital, in England. He still had nightmares when he fell asleep, but when he woke up he knew immediately that he was safe, mostly due to the fact that Greg was by his side. And on those very few occasion that Greg was not there, he could feel the ring on his chest as he was wearing it with the chain.<p>

The next time he woke up after a thankfully dreamless sleep and he felt a warm hand on top of his own hand, he expected Greg to be by his side again. Instead he saw Mycroft, sitting on a chair beside his bed, reading the content of a manila folder which was lying on his lap. And he was holding Sherlock's hand. This was so far from normal that Sherlock couldn't help but twitch with his fingers.

"Oh, you are awake." Mycroft said, immediately removing his hand from Sherlock's. "And kind of lucid, finally."

Sherlock tried to sit up, but was immediately reminded of his healing wounds. "Yeah, kind of, not sure if I like it." Sherlock said while he watched his brother. The last few times he woke up it was always Greg who was sitting by his side, never Mycroft. He had a vague memory that Mycroft was by his side when he woke up first, but then he wasn't sure if that was real. And he wasn't sure how they got him out either. And that was the question that burnt in his mind.

"It was you, wasn't it?" Sherlock asked quietly, staring at his brother. "I wasn't sure if that was real or not."

Mycroft just needed a few second to grasp the context of that question. "It was real."

"Yes, I thought I recognized you when you came into the cell, but then you just sat there and didn't do anything, so I just thought I was hallucinating." Sherlock said. His tone was quite, not accusing. He just needed to explain, needed to know.

"No, you weren't." Mycroft hesitated a moment. "I am so sorry. I just couldn't help you immediately. The team wasn't ready. We would have never made it out of there alive if I would have revealed myself too early. I am truly sorry, I just couldn't …"

Sherlock noticed how his brother's posture was tense and how his voice broke as he explained and so he just nodded slightly. It was that moment that had confused him, the fact that his brother silently watched him while the torturer beat him, breaking more ribs, causing more pain.

"It is finished, right?" Sherlock asked, watching his brother who was visibly relieved that Sherlock dropped the topic.

"Yes, finally." Mycroft answered. "We were able to destroy the Serbian part of the web after we got you out."

Sherlock nodded, deep in thought. He had managed to dismantle the criminal spider web of James Moriarty, but somehow a strange feeling crept over his mind, the feeling that what was to come could be even more difficult – getting his old life back, telling his friends that he lied to them, that his death was a ruse. Somehow he was sure that Mrs. Hudson would welcome him back, but he wasn't so sure that John would be quite so forgiving.

As if Mycroft could read his mind he asked: "Shall I tell John and bring him here?"

For a long moment Sherlock looked into his brother's eyes before he finally shook his head. "No. I don't want him to see me this way." Sherlock stated. He didn't want John to see him so weak, so hurt, so different from the man he once admired.

Mycroft just raised an eyebrow as an answer, but nodded. With that both brothers felt quite for a while. Mycroft started reading his papers again.

"I don't mind." Sherlock said softly and when Mycroft looked up, Sherlock just let his graze wander down to his hand which he had placed on the mattress again. Mycroft smiled and after a moment he put his hand again on top of Sherlock's hand, a silent sign of the band between them. Sherlock didn't say anything more, but he realized that those two years had changed them both. He noticed it and stored the feeling away in his mind palace. He would need to examine it, but that would have to wait. He was so tired all of the time. Oddly enough while he loathed the necessity to sleep while working he had really come to appreciate having a choice in whether to sleep or not after the days of sleep deprivation in that cell. And he realized that his body still needed time to heal. So after a while Sherlock drifted into sleep again.

* * *

><p>It took nearly three weeks until Sherlock was allowed to leave the hospital. His ribs were far from healed and some wounds on his back were also not quite mended. But in the end he had deduced all the staff and was constantly annoying them with his deductions, so they were quite glad to let him go. Greg had stayed with him all of the time. Fortunately Mycroft made sure Greg got a leave from work as well as a small room to stay at the military base. But he spent most of the time in Sherlock's room anyway. It was Greg who made everything bearable to Sherlock. Greg was there when he was in pain because his tolerance for painkillers was much too high. Greg was there, soothing him when a nightmare crept through his mind. Greg tried to keep him entertained as he was bored as soon as he was more lucid, more awake and less in pain. Both were grateful that Mycroft brought Sherlock a current case, a suspected terrorist attack, to keep him sane. And Greg called him sunshine all of the time, an endearment Sherlock hated when Greg started calling him that way a long time ago, but now it reminded him that Greg was really there and that he was still loved by him. That still puzzled Sherlock every day, that he was loved, after all he had done to Greg.<p>

With his departure from the hospitals the gears where put in place to resurrect him to the public. Mycroft had planned everything, releasing the final evidence that would inform the public about Moriarty and how Sherlock defeated not only him, but also played a crucial part in bringing down the network. Well, of course they would only give away a version that was suitable for the public, no real details. But before those information would get to the public Sherlock wanted to inform Mrs. Hudson and of course John himself.


	9. Chapter 9

Greg was lying on the sofa in 221b waiting for Sherlock to return from his reunion meeting with John. He was trying to read a book, but couldn't really concentrate on the content as he had to think about Sherlock all of the time. They both arrived together at Baker Street this afternoon. Sherlock went straight to his violin and played for the next two hours without a break. He probably would have played the rest of the day if he hadn't agreed to a meeting with Mycroft in the late afternoon who had promised him a decent hair cut, a shave and a new suit to prepare him for the meeting with John. In actual fact Mycroft wanted to try to convince Sherlock to let him tell John about the ruse. Both Greg and Mycroft had agreed that the idea to just surprise John was a very bad one. John has mourned Sherlock so very deeply that he would certainly be very angry. Greg even doubted that John would give Sherlock any chance to explain the reasons before punching him. And with his still healing injuries that was a reason for concern. But in the end neither Greg nor Mycroft could convince Sherlock to try a different approach, as a message from Mycroft informed him in the early evening. So here he was waiting for Sherlock to return, worrying about the state he would be in.

Greg tries not to think about it. Instead his thoughts wandered off to Sherlock and their relationship. They haven't really talked about how they would handle it in the future. Greg was even unsure if he was supposed to stay in Baker Street today and wait for Sherlock, if they would spend the night together. Before the fall he never had waited for Sherlock here. Baker Street was Sherlock's realm. They had the mostly met at Greg's flat, not here. True they were very close at the hospital, well as close as they could be in a room where at any given moment a nurse or a doctor could come in. But the situation in the hospital was different. Sherlock was vulnerable, in pain and later on mainly bored. Now that he was mending, would things just go back to how they have been before? Greg really longed to have a closer relationship with Sherlock, spending more time together. The old Sherlock would have never agreed to that. But he had changed, hadn't he? He had said that he loved him. That was new. But Greg didn't want to think about this right now and so he tried to read again. After another couple of attempts to get past the first page of the book Greg heard his phone chime with a message.

_Be prepared. As expected it didn't went well. MH_

Just as he read Mycroft's message he could hear the entrance door. He sat up and waited for Sherlock to get up the stairs. He had expected a lot, but not that it would be that bad. Sherlock stopped in the door frame, holding a handkerchief against his clearly bleeding nose and there was a split in his lip. But it weren't those visible signs that shocked Greg it was the confused and somewhat lost look of his friend.

"So he didn't take it too well, did he?" Greg asked.

Sherlock just nodded, not moving from his spot in the door frame.

"Come in, I will get you some ice for your nose, sunshine." Greg said while he got up and walked into the kitchen. He heard Sherlock following just behind, grabbing a chair and sitting down. Sherlock couldn't help but wince a bit when his back touched the back of the chair.

"I think I need a doctor." He said in very quiet voice.

Greg, who was just rummaging the fridge in order to find something he could use to cool Sherlock's bleeding nose, spun around.

"A doctor? Why?" He asked nervously as Sherlock would never ask for a doctor unless he really, really needed one.

"John tackled me to the floor in the first restaurant. I think some of the wounds on my back have reopened." Sherlock stated flatly staring at an invisible spot on the table. "At least it feels sticky, like it is bleeding again. And it hurts again."

"Okay. I will send Mycroft a text so he can send somebody over to take a look." Greg answered while searching for his phone.

"No, don't, I already send a text to Molly. She will pick up some stuff and then come here and patch me up." Sherlock said taking his eyes from the table to look up to Greg who just raised an eyebrow as he was not quite sure that Molly would be the kind of doctor to do such thing. "Don't look that way. She is totally capable of patching me up. She did it several times during the last two years." Sherlock explained.

"She did?" Greg asked astound while handing Sherlock some ice cubes wrapped in a towel.

"Yes, it wasn't like I could just go into a hospital." Sherlock said rolling his eyes in exasperation.

Greg just nodded. "Does she know about us?"

"Yes. I told when I was forced to use her flat as a bolt hole for three weeks in-between." Sherlock explained.

"You stayed with her for three weeks?" Greg asked astonished. Sherlock liked Molly, but was also easily infuriated by her behavior around him.

Sherlock looked up. "She changed, especially after I told her about us. And I was injured."

Greg nodded again. He was again reminded how dangerous those two years have been for Sherlock and how much he had changed. He went to the bathroom and grabbed the pain medication the hospital had given them. He handed two pills to Sherlock along with a glass of water. Sherlock took them mumbling "Thanks."

"Do you want to lie down in your bed to get the pressure of your back?" Greg asked carefully.

"No, I don't want to mess the bed up." Sherlock answered again staring aimlessly at the kitchen table.

"So the first restaurant?" Greg asked while taking the chair opposite of Sherlock. Sherlock didn't answer immediately but Greg knew that he would eventually so he didn't push him.

Finally Sherlock looked up. "He didn't let me explain. He was so angry. He ... I …" Sherlock let out a sigh. "I just didn't know how to do it so I tried to make a joke about his moustache, which by the way makes him look like an old man. And that made him even angrier. Then he tackled me to the ground and we were evicted from that posh restaurant."

Greg could imagine Sherlock's inappropriate attempts to ease the tension that surly was there but he didn't say anything. He knew Sherlock was bad at situations that needed empathy. He was bad a phrasing his emotions as well as reading other people's emotions. They should have insisted to prepare John and not just let Sherlock walk into a situation he wasn't able to handle.

"So then we went to a small Italian restaurant and just when I started to explain how I survived the fall he got very angry again. I had just told him that my homeless network helped me when he attacked me again. That is where the split lip happened." Sherlock explained.

"You started by telling him how you did and not why you did it?" Greg asked.

"Yes, of course." Sherlock said with a confused expression on his face.

"Oh sunshine, you really don't get it, do you?" Greg said.

"Don't get what?" Sherlock asked.

"Human nature. In the case of your faked suicide the why is more important than the how."

Sherlock just nodded. "That is just what she said after the third restaurant."

"She? You mean Mary? And you went to a third restaurant?"

"Yes. After the Italian restaurant we went to a small diner. He broke my nose there after I asked him to help me with Mycroft's case."

"Let me guess, you still haven't told him why you did it, did you?" Greg interrupted.

"No, I ..." Sherlock paused. "I don't know why I didn't. But I said sorry, I apologized. That's what I was supposed to do, right?" Sherlock said his eyes again fixed on that imagined spot on the table.

"Well, yes, apologizing is good, but he probably needed to know the reason first and foremost." Greg said and as he saw Sherlock's confused look he added. "That great big brain of yours is not really good in dealing with humans."

Sherlock nodded. "Outside Mary said that I don't understand human nature. But she promised me to talk to John."

Sherlock moved forward just a little in order to place his hands on the table closer to Greg's hand. He didn't dare to take Greg's hand, but as the movement caused him to wince again, Greg took his hands.

"So you were in three different restaurants and he attacked you thrice?" Greg asked. Sherlock nodded. "And why didn't you tell John that you are injured? He could have hurt you seriously as your broken ribs haven't healed properly yet." Greg sighed.

"I … I just couldn't. I don't know. It just didn't feel right." Sherlock said, defeat leaking through his voice.

They didn't speak for a while, just holding each other's hands on the table.

"Just give him time. He will need time to realize that you are really back and he will calm down and then you can explain everything to him. Or let Mycroft explain it to him." Greg said while padding Sherlock's hand.

"No, not Mycroft. I will explain it to him." Sherlock said immediately and slightly aggravated.

"Okay, okay. But give him time."

"You didn't need time." Sherlock said suddenly looking at Greg with his intense stare.

"No, sunshine, I have needed time as well and I've got it. I had Mycroft explain everything to me and you were in no state to punch you otherwise I would have probably done it myself. I nearly punched Mycroft when he told me but he was wise enough to tell me while having a large desk between us." Greg answered with a smile that made Sherlock smile back.

Their conversation was interrupted by Molly entering the flat. The next half hour she spent looking after the wounds on Sherlock's back. Several wounds were opened again and were bleeding sluggishly. When she was done Sherlock thanked her. He was exhausted and in pain, he just wanted some quite time to go to his mind palace. So he excused himself and went to his bedroom closing the door leaving Greg and Molly in the kitchen. He didn't want to talk about this evening anymore and both them understood that and gave him his space. Molly stayed for a cup of tea and she and Greg chatted for another hour. Greg had always liked Molly, but knowing she kept Sherlock's secret from him over those two years had hurt. But in the end he was glad that she was such a loyal friend to Sherlock.

When Molly was heading home Greg carefully opened the door to the bedroom to find Sherlock seemingly asleep. He was unsure what to do. He had never stayed in Baker Street overnight, never shared the bed with Sherlock here. Sherlock never wanted that and Greg never asked. And even when Sherlock stayed at his place he wasn't one for cuddling after sex. Most of the times Sherlock woke up in the middle of the night and he left without another word. Was it different now?

"What are you waiting for?" Sherlock mumbled.

Not asleep, Greg thought. And as he hasn't been sent away he took the question as an invitation. He got his pajama out of his bag, put them on and slipped under the duvet, carefully not to disturb Sherlock, he kept a distance. But Sherlock obviously had a different idea as he reached out to grab Greg's hand to draw him closer. So Greg moved closer and felt how Sherlock snuggled up to him.

"Thank you." Sherlock whispered.

"For what?" Greg asked.

"For being here. For loving me." Sherlock whispered.

Greg said nothing; he just smiled and kissed the nape of his friend. With that the both felt asleep.

But it was a restless night with Sherlock having several nightmares. Greg tried to soothe him every time those memories haunted him. In all those weeks since Sherlock was back Greg hasn't dared to ask him what has happened to him in those two years. Of course he has told Sherlock that he could talk about it when he would feel up to it. Greg would never force him to tell him anything. And so far Sherlock hasn't give him any details, but those injuries and a number of older scars along with those nightmares were enough for Greg to realize that those two years were not easy for Sherlock at all. So while soothing his friend after another nightmare and feeling the bandages on Sherlock's back beneath his hands Greg felt the anger rising in his gut. He was angry with John who as a doctor should have seen that Sherlock wasn't well and who should have given him a chance to explain anyway. But Greg had promised Sherlock not to intervene and he would keep that promise.


	10. Chapter 10

He really is back again, Greg thought, while sipping at his champagne. Even now, there were still moments when everything seemed very surreal. Sherlock had invited everybody around, which was very much unlike him. Well, it was Greg's idea, but Sherlock had just said yes after pretending to argue against it for a few minutes. So here they were, celebrating the return of the great Sherlock Holmes and how he saved hundreds of lives and parliament by preventing a terrorist attack. Everything was as usual. Well most things at least were as usual. Sherlock was the hero he pretended he didn't want to be. They still hid their relationship from everybody. And Sherlock had John back to accompany him. Of course some things have changed. Greg and Sherlock spent far more nights together since they were back in London then ever in the months before the fall. Somehow Sherlock needed that, needed the closeness Greg could provide, even though Greg was sure he would never admit it if asked. And Sherlock still had nightmares he didn't want to talk about. Greg accepted that. He knew better then to push him. So Greg just enjoyed the fact that he had him back and he just observed with a smile that it was so obvious that Sherlock was happy to be back at Baker Street with his friends.

While Sherlock and John answered the questions of the waiting journalists in front of the house the talk in the flat was all about weddings. Greg liked weddings. He really didn't lie when he told Mary that he couldn't wait. He liked the atmosphere and the dancing. Oh, he would love to dance with Sherlock at the John's and Mary's wedding. Sherlock was a fantastic dancer, but as their relationship was a secret they have only ever danced in the small confines of Greg's flat. Only once a long time ago they spent a weekend at the Holmes Manor. Mycroft had forced Sherlock to stay at the manor to investigate a case for him and Sherlock was bored, so he had invited Greg to join him and they had the whole house all to themselves. Of course Greg knew that Sherlock came from a posh background but that house was even posher than he had anticipated. There was this big ballroom that in the past was obviously used for lavish balls. And somehow he was only mildly surprised when Sherlock suggested that they should dance. At first they quarreled a bit who was to lead. But Sherlock made it quite clear that it could only be him. So they had danced alone all evening in that ridicules ballroom. Greg was lost in those memories when he heard Sherlock and John arguing downstairs.

"So you heard me, you git?" John yelled. "And you didn't care. You just walked away and let me grieve, you cold bastard."

"John, I am sorry, I …" Sherlock's voice sounded disturbed.

Greg walked downstairs, but stopped half way. Sherlock was standing lost in the middle of the hall. He clearly wanted to say something, but just when he had an idea how to say it, John intervened.

"You saw how bad I was, how I struggled, how I asked you for one more miracle and you just walked away to play your game of hide and seek." John was furious and he pushed Sherlock against the wall. Greg was about to jump down the stairs as he could see the pain in Sherlock's face even if he tried to hide it. His back and his cracked ribs were far from healed. But Sherlock threw him a brief glance that clearly carried the plea not to intervene.

"John, I couldn't. It …." Sherlock said.

"Don't. I've had enough. You are a coldhearted bastard. I can't believe I asked for that miracle." John yelled again, giving Sherlock no chance to say another word. Instead he stormed up the stairs glaring at Greg who wanted to say something, but John just ignored him. So Greg went downstairs to Sherlock who was frozen in the spot, his eyes fixed on the floor.

"We will tell him, when he comes back, okay?" Greg said, but Sherlock didn't answer.

When John came down the stairs again with Mary in tow, Greg tried to stop him. "John, please listen to him."

"You defend him?" John yelled. "He is cruel and uncaring. We are just pawns in his games." With that he stormed out. Mary turned around halfway through the door with an apologetic shrug.

Sherlock didn't see that he still stared at the floor. John's words streamed endlessly through his mind. He couldn't move. Everything felt numb. It took a while until he recognized that Greg was trying to get him to look up.

"Let us go upstairs. We will solve this. Everything will be okay." Greg tried with that soothing voice.

Everything will be okay. Sherlock didn't believe this. Not now, not after he had seen the anger in John's eyed and heard those words. Yes, this morning he had thought that everything was okay, but that was an erroneous belief. Nevertheless he led Greg lead him upstairs. Thankfully he got him right to his bedroom through the kitchen door, avoiding the curious gazes of his guest. He sat down on the bed, but didn't move.

"I'll be right back. I will just tell your guests to go home." Greg said and walked back to the living room. Sherlock could hear Greg talk and by the noise he heard he deduced that everybody left the flat. He didn't had to wait long for Greg to be back and felt the mattress dip beside him, his warm hand holding him in an embrace.

"He is right, isn't he?" Sherlock finally said with a small voice. "I am uncaring and cruel. I let you all grieve. I could have given you a sign, trusted you to keep the appearance up." Tears started to well up and Sherlock couldn't stop them from making their way down his cheeks.

"No, no. Please, don't do this to you." Greg said hastily while he tried to get Sherlock to turn to him to look him in the eyes. In the end he had to use both hands to turn Sherlock's head. "I love you and I know that you are not uncaring and not cruel. You were forced to make difficult decisions and you did everything to keep us safe, because you care." Greg tried to read in Sherlock's face if his message got through but he wasn't sure. As soon as Greg's hands left his head Sherlock turned away.

"I just want to sleep." Sherlock said quietly as he stood up and moved to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Greg sighed. Again he knew better than to push the man he loved into talking about the incident any further. So he went to the living room and began to clean up the glasses. Mrs. Hudson came up the moment she heard Greg tidying up.

"John really grieved a lot." She said trying to be as quite as possible.

"That is no excuse to behave like that, not giving him a chance to explain. Insult him like that." Greg said angry.

"You have forgiven him, haven't you?" She asked.

"Yes, of course." Greg said, "How could I not after all he had been through to save us. Moriarty forced him to do all that. If he hadn't jumped, we would all be dead." And just when he had finished that sentence he realized by the look on her face that Sherlock hadn't told her either.

"Dead? Who?" Mrs. Hudson asked clearly terrified.

"The three people Sherlock cares about the most, John, me and …" Greg hesitated for a moment, worried that Mrs. Hudson would faint, but he said it anyway. "You."

She gasped but didn't faint. "I already came to the conclusion that he must have had a good reason to do it, but that …" She didn't finish that sentence. "Somebody should tell John."

"Yeah, I think so too, but Sherlock insisted that he has to be the one." Greg said. In that moment he heard Sherlock rumbling in the bathroom.

"Tell him, I understand and that I don't think that he is heartless." Mrs. Hudson said, padding Greg's arm before leaving.

"I will. Thank you, Mrs. H." Greg answered.

Greg finished tidying the living room and started washing up the dishes. When he was finally finished with everything he slowly walked to the bedroom. Sherlock had drawn the curtains, closing out the daylight as it was still early afternoon. He lay in bed, his back to the door. Greg was sure that he wasn't sleeping, so he asked cautiously: "Can I join you?" He only got an indefinable hum as an answer but as it was no clear no, Greg stripped of his daytime cloth and climbed under the duvet. He got close to Sherlock and engulfed him with a soft hug. Sherlock didn't make a move but grabbed Greg's hand and intertwined his fingers with Greg's fingers. This way they lay there for a while and eventually Greg fell asleep.

He slept for quite some time, Greg guessed, because when he woke up no light came in through the gaps between the curtains. It was Sherlock's quite whimpers that had woken him. He was curled into a ball, trembling and muttering something that he couldn't quite understand. But in-between he recognized his name.

"Sherlock, wake up." Greg whispered while trying to wake up Sherlock with a soft shake.

"No, no, please don't, don't." Sherlock pleaded, clearly still stuck in his nightmare.

"Sunshine, you need to wake up. Everything is okay. You are at home." Greg said a little bit louder, shaking Sherlock a little bit more. This time it worked. Sherlock woke up with a gasp, nearly jumping away from Greg. His eyes were filled with fear and terror.

"Hey, sunshine. It was just a dream. You are safe." Greg said, pulling Sherlock closer, who gave in and curled himself around Greg, sobbing and trembling. "You want to talk about it? Was it about Serbia?" He didn't get an answer just some more sobs and tears. So he just held Sherlock and waited for the trembling to subside, but that didn't happen, but after some time the sobbing ceased.

"It wasn't about what you think." Sherlock started. "The dreams about Serbia have nearly vanished."

"Okay. What was it then?"

"It was Moriarty, he was killing you. And I could do nothing. I just had to watch." Sherlock said with a shaking voice. "I had those dreams ever since he made me jump down that roof. Every time in those years when things became dicey, when I made mistakes, when they could have discovered that I was still alive, those dreams haunted me. It is mostly you, sometimes John, sometimes Mrs. Hudson, sometimes all three of you."

The realization hit Greg like a hammer. He had always thought of Sherlock as going through all of this with his usual confidence, with no fear of failure, because that was just how he was. Never did it cross his mind what Sherlock might have felt during those two years. He always assumed that those nightmares were about the torture, but now Greg realized that while they all have been grieving Sherlock, the man himself lived in constant fear to make a mistake that would end the lives of those he loved.

"Oh, sunshine." Greg said. "I am so sorry."

"Why? It is not your fault." Sherlock asked confused.

And Greg had to smile at Sherlock's confusion. How could this brilliant man be so inept in regards of emotions? So Greg started kissing Sherlock, on his forehead, his cheeks, his lips, every spot reachable. "I am sorry, because you don't deserve those nightmares, because you saved us, because you risked your life to keep us safe, because you are brilliant and of course because I love you." He still could feel the trembling and so he just hold Sherlock a little closer until he heard a wince that reminded him that his friend's body was still injured and fragile. "Sorry, didn't want to hurt you."

"It is okay." Sherlock muttered and started kissing Greg. "I love you." Sherlock whispered into Greg's ear.

"I love you too." Greg answered softly.

They stayed in bed for quite a while just kissing and holding each other, until they heard the unmistakable voice of Mrs. Hudson who had cooked dinner for them. So they got up and got dressed. Before they went downstairs Greg confessed to Sherlock that he told Mrs. Hudson about the reason for his faked suicide. At first Sherlock was shocked, but he realized that Mrs. Hudson had a right to know and he decided to tell her everything during dinner, well, maybe not the gruesome details, but enough so that she understood why there was no other way.


	11. Chapter 11

John Watson hasn't been to Baker Street since their argument after the press call after they prevented the terror attack. It had all been too much. Sherlock's return, his abduction and nearly being burned in a bonfire, the madness inside the tube car. Yes, he knew that he had forgiven Sherlock down there. The next day with the press waiting in front of Baker Street and all of them having champagne in the living room – that has been surreal. Yes, John was sure, that he was happy that Sherlock was alive, but he wasn't so sure that he had really forgiven him. There was this one sentence, spoken in the dimly lit hall of Baker Street that had triggered it - 'I've heard you'. How could Sherlock watch him at the cemetery, with all his grieve open on display and then still decide to walk away and keep him in the dark for two years. So when the journalists were gone he yelled at Sherlock, told him again, how much his 'death' has hurt him, how difficult those last two years have been, while the great Sherlock Holmes played his game of hide and seek. Sherlock just looked at him in shock. He apologized again and just wanted to tell him more, but John just got Mary from upstairs and left the flat, slamming the door shut. He didn't want to hear another word. He needed time and so he hasn't answered a single of Sherlock's many text messages.

But here he was again. Mary had urged him to go, to let Sherlock explain. He reluctantly agreed, more so to stop the discussion with Mary than out of a wish to talk to Sherlock. For a moment he stopped in front of the dark wooden door in the pouring rain, still unsure what he wanted to say to Sherlock. As soon as he entered the hallway Mrs. Hudson intercepted him and dragged him into her kitchen.

"Sherlock is not at home." She said. "But he said he will be back soon. Have a tea with me." John just nodded and followed her into her kitchen. "Isn't it wonderful that he is back?" She asked while serving him tea.

"Yes, I guess so." John answered, feeling tense and uncomfortable.

"You don't sound too happy. Do you still hold a grudge against him, dear? How can you after all he has done to keep us safe?" Mrs. Hudson said with consternation in her voice.

John looked her in the eyes. "After all he has done to keep us safe?"

"He hasn't told you?" Now she was surprised. "I thought he told you after your little row in the hallway."

"He hasn't told me what?" John asked with a slight agitation in his voice.

"Oh, I am not quite sure that I should tell you, if he hasn't." Mrs. Hudson said while getting up and walk away to pretend that she had to clean the kitchen surface.

John jumped up from his chair as well. "Please tell me. I need to know. He just told me that he had to dismantle Moriarty's network, not much more."

Mrs. Hudson turned around and waited for a moment. She still was unsure if she should tell John what Greg told her first and Sherlock explained in more details later. But she remembered how much John had grieved and how Sherlock came back from the reunion sporting a bleeding nose and a split lip and how utterly defeated he was after that awful argument in the hall. She bit her lower lip, but then she started to speak.

"Sherlock told me that Moriarty had forced him to jump off that roof by threatening to kill us – you, me and of course Greg. There were three snipers watching us. If he hadn't committed suicide or rather pretend to have done it, they would have killed us. And he kept us in the dark for so long because he was sure that we were watched all the time and that if they had thought that he was alive that they would have still killed us."

John gaped at her. Suddenly he realized that he hadn't given Sherlock the time to explain, that indeed his best friend would have never done something like that without a very good reason. He felt stupid and self-righteous. While still thinking about why he didn't asked Sherlock for a proper explanation he heard how the front door was opened and shut and how undoubtedly Sherlock sprinted up the stairs.

"Thank you for telling me." John said before walking out of Mrs. Hudson's flat and slowly making his way upstairs, sure about what he wanted to say to Sherlock. He wanted to know everything, every little detail. Today he would give his best friend the chance to explain everything and then he would apologize for not asking those questions right from the start.

As John walked into the flat he noticed that Sherlock's coat was hanging safe and dry at his usual spot while he heard Sherlock cursing in the bathroom. As the door to the bathroom was open John just walked in, but came to a stop once he saw his friend in front of the mirror. Sherlock was soaking wet from the rain, his wet shirt tossed to the floor and he tried to remove some obviously wet bandages from his back.

"Sherlock, what?" John stammered.

Sherlock froze for a long moment before he turned to face John, but before he could say anything John walked up to him.

"Let me help you." John spoke softly. "Sit down."

So Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bath tub and let John change the bandages. He couldn't help to flinch when John removed the first bandage.

"Oh god, what did you do?" John asked once he could see the wounds underneath. Those looked like they were caused from a whip. And there were other already healed scars, some looked like somebody had put out their cigarettes on his skin. And John could see the very faint colors of disappearing bruises. John waited for Sherlock to answer his question but he didn't get an answer and so he grabbed the medical bag from the shelf under the sink and started to work.

Sherlock heard John's question and the horror in his voice, but he just didn't know what to answer and so he decided to keep silent. He knew his back still looked awful. Some of those wounds were still not completely healed after they had been ripped open again at their dreadful reunion in the restaurant and then again when he had pulled John out of the bonfire. He was sure that John would realize that connection soon. And as expected that happened.

"You had those injuries when I tackled you in the restaurant, don't you?" John asked with a quivering voice.

Sherlock just nodded, again unsure of what to say. He couldn't see how John nodded while his hands slowly moved over some older scars. John sighed. "I am sorry. I shouldn't have reacted so violently. I should have given you an opportunity to tell me everything."

Sherlock didn't dare to say anything, to say that he agreed. Every talk they had since he came back ended not so well. He was not good at this, so he decided to let John do the talking first, but John just worked in silence. Feeling how John's hand gently cleaned his wounds and applied new bandages brought back faint memories of the many times John took care of him when his reckless behavior let to injuries. He had to smile at those memories, but his thoughts were interrupted by John talking.

"Finished." John said as he fixed the last bandage. A moment of silence stretched with neither of them saying something or moving. "Will you tell me everything if I asked you, if I promise to just listen?" John finally asked and Sherlock could sense the insecurity in his friend's voice.

"Yes." Sherlock answered immediately. He turned around to face John. "Let me just change into some dry clothes."

Now it was John turn to nod. "I will make us some tea." With that he left the bathroom and walked into the kitchen.

Sherlock smiled; of course tea would make everything easier. He got up and took a towel to dry his wet hair. Then he took the ring with its chain and his phone from the shelf. While he slipped the chain around his neck he began to type a message to Greg.

_John is here. He wants to talk. SH_

He just had to wait a few seconds.

_That is good, isn't it? GL_

_Yes. He wants to know everything. He saw the scars. SH_

_Oh. Well, tell him everything. He has a right to know. GL_

_I know. Everything? Including us? SH_

_I always wanted to tell him. You were afraid. Still it is your decision. GL_

_Thanks. I will tell him. Bring some food when you come home. Angelo's. SH_

Home. Sherlock had to smile after sending that last message. Home and Greg were somehow synonymous by now. And after this talk hopefully John would be his friend again. Then finally everything would be back to normal, no better than before, Sherlock thought. With that thought in mind he put the phone away and changed into his comfortable pajamas bottoms, a t-shirt and his favorite blue dressing gown. He stopped in front of the mirror for a moment. He nodded to his reflection and took a deep breath before walked back to the living room. John was seated in his chair. Tea was steaming in a mug next to his chair. Sherlock sat down in his chair, grabbed his mugged and carefully took a sip of the hot liquid.

"So, what do you want to know?" Sherlock asked as he had no idea where to start.

John was deep in thought and didn't say a word for a while. "Mrs. Hudson told me you jumped of the roof, because Moriarty had snipers who were about to kill us – her, me and Greg. Is that right?"

Sherlock was relieved about that start. "Yes. He wanted me to commit suicide and to admit that I was a fake, in order to finally destroy my reputation. He needed something to force me to do it. I wanted to force him to recall the snipers but Moriarty shot himself in the head to prevent that. Fortunately, Mycroft and I had planned for the worse case."

John nodded and waited a moment before he asked another question. "Why didn't you tell us? And why did you stay away for so long?"

"Too dangerous. Moriarty made sure that even after we caught and eliminated the three initial snipers others would be there to do the job. And you three were monitored constantly. So I had to dismantle the whole network. It was the only solution, the only way to keep you all safe and it took longer than expected." Sherlock said quietly.

John nodded again. Silence filled the room once more. "Those wounds? Those scars? What happened?"

Now it was Sherlock's time to hesitate. He really didn't want to talk about it but he had promised John to answer all his questions. "It wasn't hide and seek." He heard John gasp. "I wasn't able to avoid being injured in some situations. And I was captured. It was the last strand of the network, in Serbia." Sherlock sighed, trying to avoid John's gaze. "I was tired. I made a mistake and they caught me. Luckily, they didn't know who I am. Mycroft got me out."

"Mycroft got you out?" John asked with a hint of anger. "But he couldn't get you proper treatment and just let you stroll into the restaurant to interrupt my proposal with those wounds on your back? He should have made sure that you ..."

"He did." Sherlock interrupted him. "I was in hospital for nearly three weeks."

"You were in a hospital for three weeks?" John gaped. He realized that Sherlock must have been more seriously injured if he stayed in a hospital for so long. He despised hospitals. "There were more injuries then the ones on your back, right?"

"Yes, broken ribs, punctured lung, fever from infections. They had fun with me for quite a while. So Mycroft brought me to a military hospital outside of London." Sherlock stated plainly.

"And why didn't you call me? Why didn't Mycroft call me?" John asked, his anger barely hidden.

Sherlock watched John wondering if this was a good moment to reveal his relationship with Greg. John was angry again, but it was now or never, he decided. "Mycroft called Greg." Sherlock said as calm as possible.

"He called Greg? Lestrade?" John asked confused. "Did Lestrade know you were alive then?"

"No, he didn't, not until Mycroft told him on the day he brought him to the hospital. That was shortly after he got me out of Serbia."

"So Mycroft called the Inspector you worked with, the one whose name you never remember, the one who arrested you on that dreadful day, playing into Moriarty's hands. He called him instead of calling your best friend?" John was clearly angry, just like during all the other talks they had since the reunion. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to reveal the big secret, Sherlock thought for a moment, but hiding it any longer wasn't making it any better either and he was so sick of hiding his feelings for Greg in front of John.

"Yes, because I was feverish from the infection and I wasn't lucid, I was still thinking that I was in Serbia every time I woke up. Mycroft couldn't be there all the time to calm me down and he knew that Greg would be able to do so." Sherlock spoke fast and just as he saw that John wanted to speak again he raised his hand to stop him. "John, you are my best friend, but Greg is." Sherlock stopped for a moment. "Remember that first evening at Angelo's, when you tried to hit on me."

"I didn't try to hit on you. I just asked you if you had a girlfriend." John intervened.

Sherlock smiled. "Okay, okay. Anyway I told you that I was married to my work." Sherlock waited for John to realize what that meant, but John just looked at him very confused. "Well, Greg and I, we are, we were together. We are not married, even though Greg kind of proposed to me about six month before Moriarty forced me to leave. Well he bought a ring and I deduced that he bought it for me." Sherlock smiled and grabbed the chain with the ring from underneath his t-shirt and handed it to John.

"You and Lestrade? You don't even remember his name?" John asked confused while inspecting the ring.

"Well, that obviously is on purpose, to keep people from thinking we are close." Sherlock sighed.

"And you kept that a secret all of the time, from me?" John asked.

"Yes, well, no, we wanted to tell you, but then so many things happened. Greg and I, our relationship wasn't really what normal … we … it was all so complicated. And we always attracted dangerous people so we decided to keep our relationship a secret. Also we might not have been able to work together when the Yard would have known that we were together. So only Mycroft knew and Mrs. Hudson kind of suspected it as well, also she thought it was over for a while when you moved in here. I wanted to tell you, but then Moriarty appeared and after that night at the pool I thought it was too dangerous, for all three of us. Well, that didn't work out as Moriarty clearly identified that Greg was a person I cared about anyway, but he didn't find out how much I cared about him." Sherlock spoke fast without taking a breath. When he was finished he waited a moment, watching John's reaction to this revelation.

"So you and Greg ..." John said, still not quite grasping what he was just been told.

"Yes. So when Mycroft got me out of Serbia, he called Greg and brought him to the hospital I was in. Lucky for me, really, I guess if I hadn't been feverish and bed-stricken Greg would have surly punched me worse than you did." Sherlock smiled.

"Yes, I guess I would have." Greg's amused voiced interrupting both Sherlock and John who haven't noticed that Greg had entered the flat. "Seeing that you have his ring in your hand I guess that he finally told you everything." Greg asked, clearly addressing John.

John looked at the ring with chain he was still holding in his right hand, then up to Greg. He nodded and handed it back to Sherlock who quickly took it while getting up from his chair.

"Your power of deduction is getting better and better." Sherlock teased while walking up to Greg giving him a not quite chaste kiss, letting his hands wander underneath Greg's shirt. Greg blushed as he was not used to Sherlock being so affectionate in front of other people.

John tried not to stare. This was something he definitely needed time to get used to and Greg seemed to sense it.

"I brought some food from Angelo's. Let's sit down and talk." Greg said softy pushing Sherlock into the direction of the kitchen.

And that was what they did. Over pasta and wine John listened to the love story that was right under his nose all the time and that he just didn't recognize. In awe he watched Sherlock and Greg, who sat side by side, hands intertwined, kissing each other in-between. They were so clearly in love. In the end John had to agree with Sherlock. He indeed saw everything, but just didn't observe. But then again both Greg and Sherlock were quite accomplished in hiding their true feelings for each other from the outside world if they wanted to.

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><p><em>Hi everybody, final chapter is up. I hoped you liked it. Thanks for reading.<em>

_I have ideas how maybe I could carry this on throught the whole of season three, but I am not sure whether to do that or not. I am also working on a complety different AU (magical) story with Sherlock and Greg._


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